


All I Ask

by VT44



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Army, Capture, Declarations Of Love, Description of Injuries, Friends to Lovers, Hospital, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Phone Calls, Return to the Army, Romance, Serious Injuries, Sexual Content, Torture, Violence, mentions of possible sexual assualt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-11
Updated: 2017-02-26
Packaged: 2018-06-01 15:18:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6525544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VT44/pseuds/VT44
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'John' His footsteps slowed and he stopped at the bottom of the stairs; hand on the bannister, head cocked slightly backwards.<br/>'What if I never love again?' <br/>*******************************************************************************************************</p><p>John heads back to the Army and both he and Sherlock must live with the consequences of what ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prolouge

**Author's Note:**

> Another idea that came to me whilst I was listening to music! This one has been inspired by the lovely ADELE!
> 
> not brit-picked not beta'd. 
> 
> Comments and Kudos always appreciated and loved!

'John' His footsteps slowed and he stopped at the bottom of the stairs; hand on the bannister, head cocked slightly backwards.  
'What if I never love again?'  


**********************************  
  
John Watson awoke to the, now, familiar weight of one Sherlock Holmes, half draped across his naked torso. It had been just over 2 years now since Sherlock had come back from the dead. Mary had disappeared taking with her the problems of her past, her present and her future. Mycroft of course kept tabs on her, knew where she was, who she was with, what she was up to; But John had specifically forbidden any mention of her unless his life or Sherlock's life was in danger from not knowing the information OR if her past had finally caught up with her and she had been killed.

 

The baby had been a fake - neither Sherlock nor John could figure out how she had fooled Sherlock. This particular ‘oversight’ had caused many broody hours on Sherlock's part, trying to figure it out. After 2 broody weeks Sherlock refusing all cases, barely eating, barely leaving the couch, let alone leaving the flat, John decided he'd had enough. He knew just the way to get Sherlock out of his broody mood. This was just one case he was not going to be able to solve.

   
John returned home from a particularly difficult shift at the clinic, Chinese take-away in hand and stomped up the stairs. Sherlock didn't even notice when John entered the flat and walked past him into the kitchen, he was still laying prone on the couch where John had left him that morning, hands steepled beneath his chin. John knew it was now or never. He walked back into the living room and over to the couch. In a quick, swift move he was straddling Sherlock, his knees gently sticking into Sherlock's ribs. John quickly grabbed Sherlock's hands between his own, and the detective gave a start, a breath escaping in a huff.  


'John what...'  


'Just shut up you bastard.' Sherlock looked up at him startled but closed his mouth. He was still tense beneath John, something John took pride in. Let him sweat it out for a bit, after what the miserable sod had put him through over the past two weeks.  


'You've spent the entirety of the last 2 weeks lying on this couch thinking about my ex-wife and how she fooled YOU. But what about me Sherlock - you seem to have forgotten that I'm the one who was married to her and I’m still here! She...' John steadied himself and took a deep breath. He had been suppressing his emotions in relation to Mary for as long as possible. Sherlock relaxed slightly beneath him, in turn causing John to slightly relax his grip on Sherlock's hands. Sherlock looked up into his face and in that moment John saw it, the slight dilation of his pupils, the slight hitch in his breath as John released his hands and then placed them either side of Sherlock's head.

   
'She can't take you away from me a second time Sherlock. I won't let her.' And following those words John leaned forward slightly, noting the way Sherlock moved his face towards John's at the same moment.  
  
The first kiss they shared had been careful and slow with closed mouths, as if discovering the art for the first time.  
  
Now, two years on John was still not quite sure if they fit into any particular relationship category. Certainly they had gone from friends to lovers but beyond that... John wasn't sure, Sherlock hadn't indicated anything more and John certainly wasn't going to be broaching the subject any time soon, he would not ruin what they had. Just being with Sherlock was enough for him. Whatever it is that they have with each other John would try his hardest to preserve it as long as he could.  
  
That's why on this particular morning as John lay with a peacefully sleeping Sherlock weighing him down, he hardly even felt his weight, for something else far stronger and heavier was now sitting in his stomach. But the construction around his heart, that heaviness he was finding harder to deal with. Sherlock was going to awake and look into his eyes and know before he had even said a word, his face was going to fall and John almost couldn’t bear to think about it. In the end, however Sherlock found out it was going to be tough.  
  
John Hamish Watson was going back to the Army.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So after an exceptionally long wait here is the next chapter!  
> Yay!
> 
> I was inspired to this write this chapter after the latest comment on chapter one - so thank you so much for all your comments and kudo, see they can make a difference! I have finally finished a plan for the rest of this story and know what I am going to write for the next chapter. Hopefully I will get a chance too do that on my next day off! 
> 
> love to all and enjoy. 
> 
> kudos and comments most welcome! :D
> 
> P.S. Don't kill me.... it gets a lot worse before it gets better.... but there is a happy ending!

Sherlock knew with every fibre of his being that John would come home from the War. Whilst he had been told by Mycroft that the area where John had been deployed was highly volatile and dangerous and that Mycroft may have a hard time keeping track of his whereabouts, Sherlock knew John would only be gone 6 months and he would come home.

 

John had PROMISED it would only be for 6 months and if there was something that John always did, it was that he always kept his promises.

So Sherlock continued life with a strict schedule of diet, exercise, sleep, cases and trips to the morgue. Mrs Hudson came in with tea every afternoon and he replied or occasionally grunted in response to conversation with her. Lestrade would bring around a number of cold cases every couple of weeks, along with a case of beer and Sherlock’s favourite Chinese take-away. Sherlock couldn’t be sure if John had set this up before he left, or if Lestrade just needed the company and outlet himself because of his ex-wife’s decision to move to America with her new husband and take his kids with her. Molly had a never- ending supply of corpses for him to examine and experiment with. Again Sherlock couldn’t decide where John had set it up before he left, or if Molly did also need to company now that her second engagement to Tom was over… again… for good this time…

 

Everything he was doing to keep busy and keep his mind active he knew that would give him a natural high, he could bask in the euphoria of the decomposing flesh he studied or the warmth that Mrs Hudson’s tea brought to his heart (although he would never tell her that in person). And of course the high he got from solving cases that had been sitting dormant at Scotland Yard for weeks, months and some even years or decades could never be replaced. The only thing missing was the constant presence of John. It was in these moments alone that he thought about the itch that felt as though it needed to be scratched. But John had forbidden him, no matter how lonely he got, or how alone he felt, from putting substances into his body that would give him an unnatural high and make the itch stop.

So Sherlock stuck to the regime religiously; he knew John would worry if he wasn’t looking after himself properly.

 

But then 6 months turned into 7 and 7 turned into 8. As the days stretched, Sherlock found it increasingly difficult to keep to his carefully constructed schedule and regime. Worry crept at the edges of his mind. John had left at the beginning of March; he was supposed to be for only 184 days. Sherlock had carefully counted, he only had to last 4,416 hours without the man. That was it. That was all he had to survive. But as it crept closer to 9 months (275 days, 6,00 hours) Sherlock struggled to continue to keep on schedule. His carefully planned regime faulted, cracks appeared. He began to to trip, sleep became option, eating was a hose and with no energy there was no exercise.

 

Then the day came, the day that the phone rang – 280 days after John had left, 6720 hours of constant achy in his heart. Sherlock’s heart almost did stop when he answered the phone, late one autumn afternoon at the beginning of November.

‘John’s been captured’.

 

**************************************************************************

 

The dust filled his nostrils, stung his eyes and stuck to his skin as John and a number of his squadron were manhandled into an unmarked white van.

_Where had it all gone wrong?_

 

One minute he had been on a routine check of the local area, laughing and joking with his team about what they were going to do when, in only a number of days, they would be heading home, heading back to England. John had told his tea, that he was going to go home to his partner and they were going to have the most amazing sex of their lives on every inch and one every surface of their flat. The jeers from the squad were drowned out when all hell had broken loose moments later. The shout had come a millisecond too late from Blaker, as Jones, Smith and Gillard had come to a momentary stop behind him.

Davies and Johnson had exploded in front of his eyes and the force had momentarily stunned him, the echo ringing in his ears, before he managed to extract his rifle from his back and get off a number of shot. He knew he had managed to kill a number of the enemy combatant before the barrel of a rifle was pressed against his temple on the right side of his head. He had dropped his rifle and been forced to his knees and then pushed face down into the dirt. But John Watson was no quitter, and managed to trip the unaware combatant before they could subdue him sully. However, after a few moments of struggling, John’s vision had blurred and a pained gasp had escaped from his mouth as the butt of another rile was slammed into his skull. He surrendered at that point.

 

And when he was roughly pushed to the end of the seating in the back of the van – blood trickling down his face from his forehead, John prayed for only the second time in his life that he would just get out of this alive and be able to see, touch, smell, taste and feel Sherlock again.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the tag I have added, it's specifically for this chapter. It's not too explicit but just in case that's not your thing. 
> 
> Not britpicked or beta'd or even proof read, just written and then posted straight away! 
> 
> Enjoy, and please do leave Kudos and Comments! Back to the angst again next chapter!

  _281 days earlier_

 

‘Sherlock, say something’ John laid a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder but he flinched away and pulled the duvet tighter around himself, curling into a ball. John sighed and sat down on the edge of the bed. It had now been a month since he had told, or rather Sherlock had deduced he was going back to the army, and tomorrow was the big day. John hadn’t been able to get Sherlock out of bed and the day was almost over…  

‘… Sherlock, please look at me’ John knew something in his voice, probably the hint of desperation bordering on hysteria, caused Sherlock to roll over. Sherlock stared at him, his red and puffy eyes boring right into his soul. As Sherlock stared at him, John could see his breathing hitch on every third breath and the tears begin to pool in the corners of his eyes.

‘Don’t… please don’t shut me out. I want to spend my last hours with you.’ John slowly wiped the tears that fell from Sherlock’s face. Sherlock slowly unfurled his body and lifted the duvet, letting John slip in beside him. John pulled him in close, their legs automatically wrapping around each other. John kissed away Sherlock’s tears and began to slowly undress him. Sherlock let himself be manhandled and when John’s hand moved down to remove his underwear and give him a few quick strokes Sherlock’s breath hitched and he moaned. Softs moans could be heard throughout the flat as John found the lube and began to prepare him. Sherlock lay on his back, legs spread wide as John found the spot, over and over again. John’s name poured from his lips like a prayer to the gods before John slowly pushed inside him. He stilled for a moment, Sherlock knew to enjoy the sensation, and Sherlock began to catalogue every present feeling. He would need this memory to get through the dark times while John was away. As John’s hand twisted and flicked as only he knew how, Sherlock’s mind was brought back to the present. John moved his hands away from Sherlock’s cock and grasped tightly to Sherlock’s hands with his own as his pace quickened. He peppered his face with kiss and whispered endearments in his ear. Sherlock could feel the pressure build in his lower abdomen at how gentle and special their love-making was. As John sucked hard on the junction of his collar-bone and neck, Sherlock knew he was gone. He cried out John’s name, squeezing his fingers tightly , everything else blocked out but _JOHN_ and moments later he felt John tense above him and go still before crying out his name.

 

As they lay spooning in the minutes after their love-making John could feel Sherlock’s body tense slightly as his brain came back online.

‘Let’s just pretend hey Sherlock. Pretend that we’re not both terrified. Ok if this… if this is my last night with you, then just… please just let me hold you.’ John’s arms squeezed him around the middle.

‘John… I’m scared – I’ll have nothing left if something happens to you,’

‘Look they are… they’re picking me up tomorrow.’

‘Don’t you think I know that John! It’s all I’ve been thinking about,’

‘Hush darling. I want you to know that I will do everything I can to come back home.’ At this Sherlock rolled over in John’s arms until they were almost nose to nose.

‘No John, you must do more than everything… you MUST promise me you’ll come home.’ John sighed, leaning forward to give Sherlock a gentle lingering kiss. Sherlock closed his eyes to enjoy the moment, to soak in it, to imprint every sensation and reaction in his memory. When they pulled apart, Sherlock kept his eyes closed as John’s breath huffed onto his lips. Just as Sherlock felt himself drifting off into sleep he felt John give him a light and heard him quietly utter ‘I promise I’ll be home after 6 months’.

 

The next morning when there was a sharp rap on the door at 10am, John wasn’t prepared for the intense feeling of sadness that overcame him at the thought he was now leaving Baker Street, leaving his home, leaving Sherlock. As he heaved his duffle onto his shoulder John turned around to see Sherlock standing in the doorway of their bedroom, John’s favourite fawn jumper held tightly in his arms. John moved towards him and pulled him down into a passionate, hard kiss. Pulling away and looking into his eyes, John felt his own tears well up. But he stamped down any notion of crying, once he began, he was certain he would not stop. John cleared his throat and moved back towards the flat door, heading down the stairs, duffle bumping into the wall on the way down.

 

'John' His footsteps slowed and he stopped at the bottom of the stairs; hand on the bannister, head cocked slightly backwards.   
'What if I never love again?' And there it was, John had been waiting for this moment since Sherlock had deduced his return to the army. The fact that Sherlock was utterly terrified that he would not return. Dumping his duffle at the bottom of the stairs, John took them two at a time and grasped Sherlock’s wrists tight in his own grip before giving them a slight tug.

‘Sherlock’ John lifted one hand to place on Sherlock’s left cheek. Sherlock leaned into the touch, sighing slightly.

‘My Sherlock. I will be back. Have no doubt in your mind. I will think of you every day and night, and I will come home to you, and we will start the rest of our lives together. I will do anything to prove to you that you don’t have to find love again darling, because I _WILL_ come home, and I will love you till my last breath.’ John let go of Sherlock’s other wrist and took his face in both hands, leaning in close.

‘I love you. Nothing will ever change that.’ And with a series of quick hard kisses, John was back down the stairs and out the front door with his duffle. Sherlock made his way back inside and over to the curtain.

‘I love you too my John. Be safe’ Sherlock whispered, tears slowly making their way down his cheeks as he looked out the window and saw the army issue car drive off down Baker Street. Sherlock sank down onto the couch, John’s jumper still in his grasp, and cried in earnest.


	4. Chapter 4

John spat blood from his mouth for the second time within the last hour. He had been interrogated for quite possibly a number of hours, but he couldn’t be sure. His hair was pulled sharply, forcing his head to jerk backwards and he was staring into the balaclava clad face of the enemy.

‘Tell us what we want to know Doctor Watson and this will all stop,’ John tried to inhale deeply, but halfway through his breath, the sharp sting in his ribs reminded him of yesterday’s beating.

 

A light was shone directly in his eyes, and he tried to blink through the subsequent double vision. He had not spoken a word to the enemy since their capture, not a single syllable. He'd spoken with his men, tried to reassure them that someone was coming for them. They would be rescued, he continued to reiterate as he could hear the men sniffling during the night, but after a few days John was separated from his men. He didn't protest when he was led away. He could hear the cries of the other men as he was led away but he knew that this was just a tactic to try and make him talk. He was kept alone in a small dark room, tied by ropes around his ankles to the small wooden chair in the room, his arms painfully pulled behind him, the rope digging into his wrists. He was blindfolded and ear muffed. John knew what they were doing - sensory deprivation - it had been shown to be one of the most effective ways to make a person give out information they had been withholding. But John was prepared, he would not talk not matter what they tried. He would endure every method they threw at him. he wasn't John Hamish Watson for nothing, and he knew in his heart, even as the blackness and the stillness dragged on, that Sherlock was coming to get him.

Sherlock, the man who told him he loved him, the man he loved back with not only all his heart, but all of his soul and all of his being. Sherlock would come and rescue him and the darkness would not overcome him.

 

*******************

 

Two weeks had passed, two weeks since the itch began again. John had been missing for two week and Sherlock was practically tearing his hair out. The burn was so intense, the need, the itch. Sherlock had tried everything to make it go away. When he felt he was moments away from following his impulse Sherlock would panic, feel out of control. But when the panic set in particularly at night time, Sherlock thought back to his last night with John, back to what they had together and he vowed that he would hold on, that the itch would NOT overwhelm him. It was just so hard.  All he wanted, all he needed right now was just to talk to John, to touch him, to smell him, to taste him, to just hear his voice, his dulcet tones, his stupid made up songs in the shower that brought a little smile to Sherlock’s face in the morning, the way he would make Sherlock’s eggs on toast just the way he liked them, with little toast soldiers to boot, the way he would hold him after sex and whisper all the things he loved about Sherlock in his ear.

 _Fuck_! But no, John had selfishly gone and got himself captured. Sherlock pulled his dressing gown tighter around his thin shoulders as he stood next to the large living room windows, cigarette in hand, taking a long drag before stubbing it out on Buckingham Palace ash tray on the desk.

No one knew him the way John did.

 

Sherlock had managed to keep his mind occupied for days at a time with cases till he fell into an exhausted yet short lived sleep on Lestrade’s office couch. He had spent almost 4 consecutive days with Molly at the lab before she had sent him away, back to Baker Street, with the promise of calling him in, should anything interesting turn up. He had almost paced a hole through the living room carpet one evening, so Mrs Hudson had come up and forced him to drink copious amount of team and lie on the couch, his head in her lap, and she had massaged his aching skull. Sherlock had been surprised when he awoke the next more to realised that he had gained a few precious hours of relief from the itch.

 

Of course he would have been on the case, looking for John, finding John, rescuing John, but Mycroft had strictly forbidden it. Mycroft’s agent0 were stationed outside his house and Sherlock knew he couldn’t even move a curtain without Mycroft knowing about it.

 

14 days of hell, 336 hours of, honest to god, wondering what he would do it John did not come home. If he broke his promise. Sherlock shook his head. No John had promised he could come home and if he didn’t… well Sherlock would just have to go and find him in whatever world he had moved on too.

 

That night Sherlock prayed for the first time in his life, He got down on his knees beside their bed, hands clasped tightly together, face pressed into John’s pillow, squeezing his eyes shut.

‘Dear lord. This is a bit strange for me, I’m not one for believing in this sort of thing but… I need your help. Please bring John home to me. Bring him home safe. Bring him home so I can look after him, so I can love him, so I can spend the rest of my life with him. I’ll never ask for anything else again, I’ll be a better person, I will give anything for John to come home. Please… just… bring him home to me’. Sherlock crawled up and into their bed, face pressed into John’s pillow as he willed sleep to come, and for his prayer to be answered.

 

The next afternoon as Sherlock lay on the couch, he knew he would have to resort to the last thing on his list of ‘things to get rid of the itch!’. He jumped up off the couch in a flurry of movement now his mind was made up – John would forgive him – He rushed into the kitchen and reached high up into the cupboard behind the copious amounts of tea stored there, the place where John would never look, the place it was kept only for emergency situation and if this didn’t count as an emergency, Sherlock wasn’t sure what would.

 

The tell-tale tap tap tap of an umbrella on the stairs stopped his fingers fumbling for the contained. He strode back into the living room and stared straight at the door. His hands migrated from his sides into his hair, ready to pull if the news was bad. Mycroft entered and stood staring at his brother for a moment before the words Sherlock had been wanting to hear for the past 10 days since he had learnt of John’s capture left his lips.

 

'We've found him Sherlock. we've found John'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjoy my lovely readers another chapter for you! 
> 
> Hopefully soon I shall have more time to write but at the moment it's in very limited supply! I am moving once again in two weeks and haven't quite found anywhere to live yet, plus next weekend is Sherlocked!! which I am insanely excited about.  
> Plus full time work - so that doesn't leave much room for writing I'm afraid. 
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter. As always comments and Kudos are always appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right I know it has been a collosal amount of time since I updated this. My sincere spologies!  
> So much has happened since then. I have moved back from London to Australia and actually gotten myself an adult full-time job, which I have had now for two weeks. I spend about an hour and a half on public transport now, so the other morning inspiration struck for this chapter whilst on my way to work and promptly wrote 500 words on my ipad!
> 
> Enjoy lovely readers! Kudos and comments welcomed and loved forever.  
> Hopefully the wait for the next chapter won't be so long... however I have no guarantees! hehe

Sherlock ran as fast as he could manage through the corridors of the secure military hospital, located somewhere in the south of England. He even took to running up the internal staircases because waiting for the lift was too time consuming. He eventually arrived on the 3rd level, where he found the doors leading into the Intensive Care Unit, just as Mycroft had told him. He buzzed the intercom.

'Hello' a cheerful nurse answered.

'I'm here to see John Watson, it's Sherlock Holmes'

'Ah yes, Mr. Holmes we've been expecting you' the buzz sounded and the door clicked to allow him to enter. He was greeted a few meters into the corridor by a very smiley nurse, dressed in plain navy blue scrubs, with her name badge displayed on the small left breast pocket, and her accreditation hanging from her hip, just peeking out from the bottom of her scrub top. Sherlock shook himself before looking up at the nurse.  

'Hello Mr. Holmes, I'm Gemma. I'm nursing John at the moment. Do you know much about his injuries?’ Sherlock shook his head, trying to catch his breath.  

‘He’s in a pretty rough way Mr. Holmes. When his squadron was rescued he was the most severely injured soldier.’ Gemma stopped him just outside the blue curtain. Machines were beeping all around, some alarmingly fast, some soft and slow and some even emitting a high-pitched shriek. Sherlock tried to block it all out, John was behind the curtain. His John. He had come home, he was home.

‘Sherlock’ the nurse gently brought him back to the present. ‘He sustained a pretty serious head injury before he was rescued. We aren’t sure when he will wake, he has been in a drug induced coma for a few hours, while the doctors assessed the swelling on his brain. But the sedation has been lifted for the moment. Hopefully he will come to in another few hours,’ Sherlock nodded, stepping up to the curtain. Gemma pulled back the soft cotton and in the darkness Sherlock could make out John. Another nurse was seated at the end of the bed and nodded to him before continuing to write down John’s latest vitals.

 

Sherlock badly wanted to rush to the mans’ side and engulf him in a big hug; to scream and cry at him for breaking his promise to be home after 6 months; to clutch him and tell him about how it had been so close, the itch had become unbearable; to smother him with kisses and tell him how loved he was. But the railing, the tubes and his own self-restraint (what little was left) kept him from launching himself upon John. He moved silently to the plastic chair on the right side of the bed. He sat and let his eyes wander over John’s body, noting the bandage wrapped tightly around his head, the way his left eye has swelled to almost twice its size, the bandages encasing his knuckles and wrists, the fact that he was naked underneath the thin hospital sheet. There was an inordinate number of monitors stuck to his chest and hand, drips in both arms, and tubes come out from everywhere. Sherlock knew he must had a catheter in place, and could only presume that he had been given a number of different antibiotics and a blood transfusion. He gently lifted the blanket to find a mass of purple- yellow bruising on John’s abdomen, hips and the tops of his thighs. Sherlock felt like he was going to be sick, he knew what those marks were, how John had sustained them. He took a deep breath and kept moving his eyes down John’s body, cataloguing as he went. Stab wound to the upper right thigh, probably the cause of major blood loss, bandages around both ankles, either from rope burn from being tied up, or cuffs placed around his ankles so he could not escape.

 

A single tear tracked down his face, causing him to wipe it away angrily. He needed to be strong and not let the storm of emotions within consume him. He would be having a stern conversation with Mycroft very soon. He needed to read John’s notes, needed to know exactly what shape he was in, when he had been rescued. He needed to know where John had been kept, what the conditions had been like, what his captors had done to him. What had then been done to John’s captors in return.

Sherlock sank into the chair and gently took John’s hand brushing his thumb over the small area of exposed sink.

‘You can speak to him Mr. Holmes, he can still hear you,’ Gemma smiled at him from the end of the bed. Sherlock swallowed and cleared his throat. 

‘I’m here John,’ he whispered, squeezing his hand lightly, hoping for a response. But none came.

‘Please come back to me.’

 

‘Mr. Holmes, I have to do some tests on John now.’ Gemma was at his side. Sherlock gently set go of his hand and sat back.

‘John, can you open your eyes for me?’ Sherlock stared at John’s face, but no moment came.

‘John, can you say your name?’ His mouth stayed closed. Gemma gently placed her index finger in each of his palms.

‘John squeeze my fingers,’

‘Can you wiggle your toes for me John?’ Gemma made her way to the end of the bed and wrote down a few notes.

‘Sherlock, I need to gauge a response from John, so I’m going to have to cause him a bit of pain. I’m going to use my penlight on the pressure point between his eyebrow and nose.’ Sherlock nodded, gaze still firmly focused on John.

‘I’m going to have to cause you a little bit of pain John.’ The reaction was immediate. John’s arms came up flailing wildly, grabbing at anything within his reach. Monitors became dislodged and began screeching, a drip was torn out and a deep groan came from within John as he struggled to open his eyes. He almost hit Gemma in the face, but he still didn’t manage to move his head a centimetre from the pillow. Sherlock watched in horror as Gemma and the nurse from before, held John down, gently but firmly until he had finished his uncontrollable movements. Sherlock stared at the ground, unable to watch anymore.

 

‘Sherlock’ Gemma knelt in front of him, placing her hand on his knee. ‘It’s a good sign ok, noting to be too worried about. It means John is still in there somewhere, ready to fight when his body is capable.’ Sherlock nodded numbly, before moving back to the side of the bed. The monitors had all be reattached, and the drip replaced and held down with extra surgical tape. Sherlock gently took his hand again, sinking into the chair.

‘I know your there John. Come back to me. I’m here. I’m ready to look after you.’ Sherlock turned towards the end of the bed, and found Gemma quietly watching John’s monitors, pen poised to take notes. She smiled up at him when she noticed him watching.

‘Erm… Gemma, how often will you do those tests?’

‘Every half an hour,’ Sherlock nodded, looking back down at John. He leant over the railing and placed a gentle kiss on his cheek.

 

The next half an hour dragged by, and all too soon Gemma was asking John to open his eyes, say his name, squeeze her fingers, wiggle his toes.

‘I’m going to cause you a little bit of pain again John.’

Within moments of the pain registering, John reacted. He surged forward, throwing himself into a sitting position, hand coming to wrap around the ventilation tube. He gave an almighty pull, and began yanking it from his lungs. A number of nurses ran into the cubicle, and tried to stop John, who began gagging and trying to fight them off. Sherlock jumped to his feet, tears in his eyes and leant forward, ready to prise John’s wand away from the lifesaving tube.

‘John no!’

‘Sherlock stop! Everybody let him go’ Gemma shouted at him from the other side of the bed. ‘He’ll hurt himself more if you try and stop him.’ The nurses immediately let go and John gagged like an animal regurgitating its food. With every retch, he yanked another few centimetres of the tube out of his mot.  Sherlock watched in horror, feeling like his was watching John die in front of him. That tube had been his lifeline, it had kept his lungs functioning and he no longer wished for it to be inside his body.

Finally, the end of the tube was free from John’s mouth and he slumped back onto the bed coughing and moaning, lips slightly blue, chest moving minutely. Gemma leaned forward, placing the oxygen mask over John’s face. John’s breath clouded the mask in short sharp bursts and Sherlock finally gasped for a breath he didn’t realise he had been holding.

‘We’ll have to keep a very close eye on him now Mr. Holmes, and see if he can cope without the ventilator.’ Sherlock nodded, eyes now locked on the tiny movements made by John’s chest.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are my readers, another chapter for you. 
> 
> It's a little shorter than I would have liked, but that was a good stopping place once again.   
> I did write most of this on my public transport journey to work, so if the grammar is a bit incorrect or spelling etc, blame my ipod!
> 
> Also trigger warning for mention of sexual abuse/ rape in this chapter. Please don't read if this is a trigger for you. 
> 
> Otherwise enjoy everyone! Kudos and Comments sustain me and keep me writing! 
> 
> Love to you all!

John was lost, He didn’t know where, but one thing was certain, he was still alone. He had been separated from his squadron god knows how long ago, it have been days or weeks that had passed since he had transcended into hell.

If he thought hard enough he could remember their voices and if he stretched his brain just that little bit further he could swear that he remembered coming up with some kind of plan to escape his captors and free his men. There was so much static and haze surrounding those memories that John wasn’t sure what he could trust. His memory was so warped, what was true, what was a lie. His captors had told him many things during his beatings. He tried not to listen, tried to blocked it out, to clear his mind, to thinking of nothing.

But when men were holding you down, spreading your legs and taking you by force, their laughter and chants in your ears, there was no hope.

 

John groaned into the darkness, not sure anyone would ever hear him again. The darkness felt never ending. He tried to move but his body wasn’t listening, it was enjoying the floating and the weightlessness that came with it.

 

A sharp pain in the middle of his forehead cut through his musings. With a deep groan, he threw himself forward, trying to open his eyes, swinging his arms wildly, before grasping onto a tube he hadn’t realised was there before. Hands were on him, he tried to fight them off, trying to twist and turn out of their grasp. He though he heard his name being called.

He yanked and pulled on the tube.

When did this happened?

Was this a new method of torture? We’re they pumping something into his lungs that would kill him slowly and painfully.

No! He was having none of it. He pulled on the tube again, gagging and retching around it. God, it was long. The white noise and static was louder now, drowning out everything else. Finally, he knew one more pull and the device would be out. One final retch and it was gone. John would fight to the death before he let these men torture him anymore, however he was unable to resist his body's needs, slumping back, the blackness soon overtaking him, as gasped in what little air his body could take.

 

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Sherlock sighed in relief, the breaths John took were getting deeper, even if it was only minutely so. A small smile graced Sherlock's lips. This was it, John was fighting. He was going to come home with Sherlock at the end of all this and they would hold each other, just that little bit tighter than before.

 

Unexpectedly, John's hand suddenly twitched under his fingers, pulling out of his grasp and disappearing beneath the sheets. A moment later a small smile graced John's lips as he found what he had been looking for. Sherlock looked on astonished. John had moved his fingers and hand and arm!

Gemma gave a small laugh from the end of the bed. The perplexed expression Sherlock wore, made her chuckle that bit harder.

'He's what we call a scrabbler. It’s good, it’s what we want to see. He's just making sure everything is still where it should be, and that the most important parts are still there.’

Sherlock hummed as he set about recovering John's hand from beneath the sheets. He gave it a gentle squeeze and was surprised when the calloused fingers squeezed back in return.

 

'Gemma! Gemma, he squeezed my hand.' Gemma got up and made her way to the left-hand side of John’s bed.

'I might try his obs again, maybe he'll be a bit more cooperative this time.'

'John, can you open your eyes?' John's eyelids flickered but made no other movement.

'Can you tell me your name?' Silence.

'John squeeze my fingers if you can?' John's fingers twitched as though he was going to grasp Gemma’s index fingers and give them a firm squeeze but then they stopped moving. Sherlock looked up at Gemma puzzled, it was obvious John could hear them, why was he not responding?

'John, I'm going to have to cause you some pain' Gemma readied her penlight.

'No' came the croaky reply. 'Don't... Please' Gemma placed the light back in her pocket. Sherlock stared, stunned into silence. Gemma placed her fingers into John’s palms once more. Sherlock watched John’s face carefully, he was clearly uncomfortable, but was he in pain? Sherlock couldn't quite tell.

'John, can you squeeze my fingers for me?' Johns bandaged hands curled around Gemma's fingers. 'Very good John' Gemma tried to pull away, but John tightened his hold.

'John, you can let go now'

'No' John hissed, tightening his grip. Sherlock was on his feet now. John still hadn’t opened his eyes but he was certainly aware that something was happening.

'Stop... Playing games with me.'

'John, my names Gemma. You’re in hospital. I'm here to help you.' Johns face scrunched as Sherlock moved closer to the bed. John’s grip, if anything, got tighter, his fingers biting into Gemma's hands. Gemma looked up at Sherlock for a brief moment before she focused back on John.

'No...no this is just a game, a cruel game... To play with me… to torture me…to make me think… that I’ve been saved'

 

What happened next was so fast Sherlock barely registered it had even happened. John's leg swung up and struck Gemma in the stomach, whilst he simultaneously grabbed her wrists. Tears sprang into Gemma's eyes as the air rushed from her lungs.

'I’ll break your fucking wrists!' John screamed, pulling Gemma closer. ‘You know I will. I know your trying to kill me.’

'Please John stop!' John’s screaming was heard across ICU and suddenly two security personnel were in John’s cubicle, one holding his legs down, whilst the other tried to pry Gemma's arms from his grip. John screamed again, frightening Sherlock with how terrified he sounded.

'No! No! Please! Not again! Please! Sherlock! Sherlock help me!' Sherlock stepped forward pushing past one of the burly security men. He grabbed John’s face with both hands, tilting it slightly towards himself.

'John, open your eyes and look at me.' For one long second Sherlock thought John was going to try and fight him too. But then his good eye fluttered open and after a few moments focused on his. He was still gripping Gemma’s wrists tight and trying to fight with the security guards. Sherlock lent down close.

‘Let Gemma go John, she is only here to help you,’ Sherlock murmured, his thumb tracing a line from John’s ear across his face to just beneath his nose. After another moment, recognition dawned on John’s features and he stopped fighting, letting go of Gemma and brining his hand up to wrap around Sherlock’s wrists. The grip was bruising but Sherlock didn’t care.

‘John it’s me, it’s Sherlock. You’re home, you’re safe and I’m here.’ Sherlock lent down, preparing to give John a gentle kiss on the cheek, when John’s grip on his wrists tightened again and Sherlock hesitated. He looked back into John’s eyes and noticed, for the first time, the distrust shining out of them. John leaned his head forward slightly, and Sherlock followed, expecting a short sweet kiss to follow. That was not what happened, as a sharp pain exploded through Sherlock’s forehead and he knew no more.


End file.
